


wash us in the blood

by tokyonightskies



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Xaela Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Awkward Boners, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gift Fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mutilation, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Swords, Unrequited Crush, ZenoHika Week (Final Fantasy XIV), alphinaud is referenced like once, atypical deepthroat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: His chest heaved and fell in quick, rushed breaths. The corners of Zenos' mouth curled up in a sly, dangerous smile, cutting the tension between them, and he settled his foot flush against Bujira's flank.Zenos came to straddle him then, trailing gauntleted fingers over Ame-no-Habakiri's hilt and blade as he sank down on one knee. Sunlight slashed across his face. Bujira couldn't look away; goosebumps dimpling the flesh of his arms at the sudden proximity. Sweat trickled down his throat, into the hollow of his collarbone, yet he shivered when Zenos tipped his head to the side and appraised him. Instead of hunting for escapes, Bujira remained frozen under that intense gaze."Gone docile in my absence already, have you?."--or the inherent eroticism of being entirely at your enemy's mercy.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	wash us in the blood

**Author's Note:**

> "Some things once you’ve loved them become yours forever. And if you try to let them go they only circle back and return to you. They become a part of who you are..."
> 
> “Or they destroy you.”
> 
> -Kill Your Darlings (2013)

Bujira didn't have any recollection of a fight; only a tumble, and crashing into the harsh gravel underground. The air knocked out of him. His head throbbed sharply, and hot pain pulsed behind his eyeballs as he stared at the cloudless, Ala Mhigan sky stretching out above him. 

Before he could scramble upright, Zenos suddenly lorded over him. His hulking form casted a long shuddering shadow over Bujira's face. The sturdy sole of an armored boot drove down on his chest and held him there. 

The bright glare of the sun reflected off Ame-no-Habakiri's crimson steel. Bujira squinted and tilted his head to the side, inhaling dust and dry desert air. His heart leapt up his throat when Zenos leaned in, bearing the brunt of his weight down on Bujira's aching ribs, and twirled the sword around; the blade angled down. The glint in Zenos' bright eyes carried this downright sadistic quality, and Bujira instinctively clamped his knees together, sucked his abdomen in. 

Zenos jabbed Ame-no-Habakiri through Bujira's open hand, impervious, with a stone-faced expression. 

The pain blitzed through his every nerve ending, lightning-quick. His jaw clicked shut, and he very nearly bit his tongue off. Bujira struggled to swallow, but he wouldn't give Zenos the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Nausea crashed over him in waves. His tail thrashed from side to side, whipping up a cloud of sand. Blood spread across the underground, slow like an inkstain on parchment. He experimentally flexed his fingers and shifted his gaze back to Zenos. Under the unforgiving sun, he was wreathed golden with long, unruly strands of hair that fell around his face in wisps. The sight set off an acute sense of loss inside Bujira's chest. As if he was  _ robbed _ of this somehow.

The urge to reach out and brush his fingers against one of those high, chiseled cheekbones welled up, crested; and Bujira arched his back like a bowstring being plucked. Held back only by the sharp toe of a boot pushed into his sternum and the katana jammed in the palm of his hand.

The short-sleeved vest he donned during his journey as a monk nearly slipped off his shoulders. The thick leather tickled his bare skin on its descent, sensually slow. The contrast with Zenos’ full-body armor couldn’t be more stark, but Bujira wasn’t allowed to dwell on his vulnerability when he got shoved back into the dirt. He snarled in response, ignoring the uptick of pain from his hand. 

His chest heaved and fell in quick, rushed breaths. The corners of Zenos' mouth curled up in a sly, dangerous smile, cutting the tension between them, and he settled his foot flush against Bujira's flank.

Zenos came to straddle him then, trailing gauntleted fingers over Ame-no-Habakiri's hilt and blade as he sank down on one knee. Sunlight slashed across his face. Bujira couldn't look away; goosebumps dimpling the flesh of his arms at the sudden proximity. Sweat trickled down his throat, into the hollow of his collarbone, yet he shivered when Zenos tipped his head to the side and appraised him. Instead of hunting for escapes, Bujira remained frozen under that intense gaze. 

"Gone docile in my absence already, have you?." 

Something clicked into place at the sardonic words, vicious and  _ hungry _ ; Bujira cuffed Zenos' thigh with his free hand, trying to shove him off. He grit his teeth and glowered at the behemoth of a man. The constant struggle had Ame-no-Habakiri biting deeper into his palm, but the sting took the edge of whatever ugly gnawed at his innards right now. His tail slammed onto the ground when he nicked a claw, caught on the metal ridges of Zenos' greaves. Bujira nursed the pain. 

His heart  _ ached _ when Zenos' smile widened a little more in amusement. 

A trickle of blood then slid down his chin, gleaming in the midday sun, and Bujira instinctively reached out; shy of touching. His hand fell back to the ground, lost. The scenery seemed to glitch, probably a trick of the abundant light, but he could've sworn his point of view suffered a stroke of vertigo. His stomach made a lazy lurch, and he snapped his jaws shut. It felt as if he should be up on his own two feet instead of pinned down, and Zenos should be standing across from him. His feet scraped uselessly over the gritty underground and his eyebrows pitched together in a pretty frown. 

"Come on then.  _ Show me hunger _ ," Zenos taunted, tilting his head to expose the curve of his strong neck. Bujira's eyes widened in shock when Zenos' throat suddenly  _ gave  _ and severed open, and thick warm blood came gushing out. There was so much that Bujira thought he’d be drowning in it.

It coated his collarbones and chest, and pooled around his shoulders and neck. Bujira shuddered through an exhale as the blood drenched his vest and nervously raked his teeth over his bottom lip. The movement drew Zenos’ attention, and he chuckled darkly in response before snatching Bujira's wrist. A flash of pain seared along his body when Ame-no-Habakiri tore the palm of his hand apart. The stench of blood permeated his nostrils. His hand was  _ throbbing _ ; held together solely by Zenos’ iron grip as his trembling fingers were brought up to that gaping gash across his throat. Bujira gasped involuntarily as his fingertips were made to skim the reddish-black film that webbed over the incision, snagging on his claws like a clothesline in the wind. The sensation was gruesome, sticky. 

And then Zenos  _ groaned _ , deep and guttural with his eyes heavy-lidded and his lips pulled back in a predatory grin. The breath lodged at the bottom of Bujira’s throat went down stubbornly, and came back out again. 

Emboldened by the reaction, Bujira gingerly pressed his fingers into the gash proper. Morbidly intimate. The flesh there was wet and soft, and he thought he could easily trace the incision from ear to ear if Zenos allowed it. He still kept Bujira's hand together; rivulets of fresh blood rolling down both their wrists. Their gazes met again, and Zenos  _ squeezed _ until Bujira choked on the raw pain. He felt tender all over, one giant bruise. Grit prickled his shoulder blades as he shifted in place. Rising to the challenge, Bujira crooked his fingers and pressed hard against Zenos' windpipe.

All it earned him was another groan, rough and animalistic. 

The wrongness of the situation exacerbated when Zenos settled down on his lap proper and tipped his head back. The wound gaped obscenely, sucking Bujira's fingers in as it would a hungry blade. Every instinct, borne from over a decade worth of experience, screamed at him to run, but Bujira couldn't even tear his eyes away. His lips parted as in acceptance of a kiss, at the slippery feeling of blood on his fingertips. Zenos put his huge hand on Bujira's naked chest. The gauntlet’s cool metal grounded him amidst all these hazy thoughts. 

"So hesitant. It's unbecoming of the beast that bested me," Zenos goaded as he squeezed Bujira's broken hand again. It made him want to cram his fingers down that wicked mouth, so deep he could see them wiggling through the cut. "Do you need some more..  _ incentive? _ "

Bujira wondered how his eyeballs hadn't popped out of his sockets yet as Zenos shoved almost his entire hand into the wound. There was a sickening squelch, and Bujira felt his knuckles bump into the back of Zenos' throat. The vertebrae were heavily damaged. The cut went deep enough to nearly decapitate him. It was a terrifying thought. Bujira blinked two to three times and furrowed his brows. He couldn't shake the suspicion that he already  _ knew all of this _ , as if searching a wall for weak spots. Zenos dipped his hand in and out. In and out. His blissful smile, dimpling his cheeks, was sharp enough to shred a heart to ribbons.

Dried blood flaked over his fingers. The taste of bile clung to the back of his tongue, because everything snapped back into place; the familiarity, the  _ wrongness _ . Why Zenos was a dead weight in his lap.

Zenos was  _ dead _ .

The realization brought an abrupt end to his dream. Bujira jolted upright in his sleeping roll, panting harshly in the pitch black of night. Sweat dotted his forehead. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his thumb, overwhelmed by his erratic heartbeat pounding away between his horns. There were hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he was rock hard under the covers. A pained whimper escaped him. 

Somewhere off to the side of the tent, Alphinaud stirred with a sleep-scratched groan and rolled over. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a while back for a friend. she gave me permission to torture her warrior of light, and i pounced at the opportunity. this is entirely self-indulgent, but the theme fits the zenohika week prompt "blood", so let me drop this in here anyway~


End file.
